


The Air Between Us

by HopelessThespian (maevestrom)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Beaches, Cameras, College, Day At The Beach, Demisexuality, Dreams, F/F, Falling In Love, Friendship/Love, Future, LGBTQ Female Character, LGBTQ Themes, Photography, Pictures, Queer Character, Queer Themes, Self-Esteem Issues, Social Anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-02 02:17:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17255771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maevestrom/pseuds/HopelessThespian
Summary: Separating fiction from reality is an arduous process, but the longer she stays there, the more she feels reality slipping away. Throughout the haze in her mind, a demisexual woman in love tries to leave her fiction behind during a day trip with the girl of her dreams- one with a journey like her own, one closer to her than she thinks.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work has been pretty intensely edited. I added a few new segments and everything.

I think we're both a little too used to things being how they are.

We're on a bench in college campus we share with a thousand strangers you know more than I do, watching the clouds pass us by. You point out the shape of each one, and even though none of them look like anything I nod in agreement while trying not to lean on your shoulder or hold your hand. My mind steals the present from me as all I can think of is _how_ to tell you- sincerely, passively, powerfully, kindly- but every time I think of _when_ to tell you, my thoughts go from words to warning signs. My mind creates a world parallel to the real one that holds the reality where I tell you _now_ and you walk away in disgust. I know it's not real, but I can't help but feel like that’s what I deserve.

 _Now_ always moves. The future where I tell you will be _now_ someday.

You finally notice. “Hey,” you ask with the sort of uncharacteristic soft kindness that breaks your stream of consciousness, a kindness I wish I could believe was reserved for me. “What's on your mind?”

I shrug because I've known you long enough for you to stop pretending that “nothing” is an acceptable answer. So I go for the second-most generic thing: “Just anxious.”

You _hmm_ with understanding patience, the kind that always ages you up ten years to my mentor and not my junior. “Wanna talk about it?”

 _Hell no,_ my thoughts immediately scream at me, so I surmise that's what I'm to do. “I'd kind of like to forget about it,” I answer. It isn't satisfactory, but it's truthful.

“Okay,” you answer. You've known me long enough to accept that as an answer. I've never known if you don't see that I _should_ talk about my thoughts, or if you just accept that I can't. Do you think you've gone far enough, or that I won't let you go further?

It gets too quiet and my heart is pounding, so I look at an amorphous cloud and for you, I pretend it's a flower. As I take in another puff of air from my inhaler, you enthusiastically agree, the kind that wouldn't seem real if it was from anyone other than you.

\---

Even before I realized the complexities of my sexuality, the conventions of romance seemed like a concept that I was always an observer and never a participant of, one always separate from how I experienced love. I never loved easily, and I never loved an insignificant woman in my life. When I loved, though, I loved with my whole heart. I loved like the woman I love is a treasure the world forgot. I loved too much because I loved too rarely. I loved like I was desperate not to lose it and be trapped in an aimless, loveless world again. I love like the kind of love I could never confess to you because I am so hard a woman to love and you are far too easy a woman to, so easy that it scares me.

You tell me you want to go to the beach. Your internal schedule is strict but your spontaneous plans are more ironclad. You're going to the beach and nothing will stop you.

I hear this and smile. “That sounds fun.”

“Yeah,” you say, unconvinced. “Wanna go with?”

I point to myself in shock. Surely there are women more interesting than I, women that you could so easily convince to join you on a date there. I have to tell myself that this isn't a date, though you know I don’t really date on a whim as it is. I'm sure you're bringing along a few of your friends from the streets that I grew up in, my only connection to the strangers you love.

I just can't believe you're bringing me. I'm not used to it. I didn't know you thought I had it in me.

You nod at my shock, either not noticing or choosing to ignore what I am garbage at hiding. “As long as you can make it,” you add.

I haven't gone on a trip this long in ages. The doctors generally recommended against it during the times where I was too ill to leave bed without fainting, but as I've gotten better I've realized that nothing's holding me back but my own fears. I don't have the blasted oxygen tank anymore- enough years have passed that I no longer need something that severe, and never have since I met you. As fearful as the idea of such a trip is, I'm healthy enough for it and- as I see you smile expectantly- excited.

“I absolutely can,” I promise.

“Awesome!” You reach over and hug me, because you're a hugger, and that alone makes me happy I said yes. I wonder if you've ever noticed my instinctual purr into your shoulder as I keep my hands respectfully around your neck, never inching any lower despite temptation.

\---

It's an hour after we left on Saturday and I'm still surprised when you and I are alone in your car down the lonely single-laned highway heading to the beach. I'm probably smiling, definitely blushing, and surprisingly not imploding from joy and anxiety. The question most on my mind, _what the hell,_ goes unsaid, but it certainly is _implied._ Luckily, I can get away with implying things around you.

“You all good?” you ask again.

I allow myself a smirk. “I'm just as good as I was the last eight times you asked.”

“Just checking,” you say quietly, enough that I strain to hear it over the jangly college rock on your stereo.

“Sorry if that was too rough.”

You wave a hand dismissively. “Psh. Girl.”

I smile, but I'm nervous. The change from loving you to _liking_ you was so sudden that you _must have_ noticed me going from being honest and vulnerable to presenting a better version of myself than I am, the kind that says _hey, you can want me, you can be with me, you can love me as I love you,_ because I don't think you can as I am. Instead, I'm who I want to be around you, and- I shamefully admit- who I think you want me to be. I'm still a tall, gawky woman with four inhalers in her bag who can barely look at you without her breath hastening, but when I try, I'm a better version of that.

Maybe.

“So what beach are we heading to?” I ask.

You click your tongue as you think of an answer. After a few seconds- a few seconds longer than usual- you say “some beach down the 101 not too far past Cannon Beach.”

 _Except it's not just some beach,_ I surmise from your tone, which rushes to be more dismissive than its outcome. You initially justified this trip as “for school” since your classes revolve around your desire to write a travel book one day, but I could sniff out then that it was something more. In my head, I congratulate myself for being right. What I say aloud is “I assume more were meant to show up? Cause it…” I fall silent before I finish _couldn't just be me, right?_

You shrug your shoulders but you're clearly downcast and can't hide it. You gently hit the steering wheel and your smile goes from plastic to authentic.

“You know what,” you say at long last. “We'll make it work, girl.”

I beam. It's just an offhand comment, but it helps me feel like I'm your second in command.

I could get used to this.

\---

_“What's your ultimate goal?”_

_I nearly choke on my lemonade as I sputter shocked laughter. “I'm never gonna get used to your questions,” I say. “Like any of us have life figured out or something.”_

_You smirk, steam rising from your coffee cup as it rests on the cafe counter. Resting your hands on your stool and pressing up, you say “Still, you gotta have… some pie-in-the-sky big dream, right?”_

_I try to think but I know I'm going to find nothing in my head. Being here in the campus with you, just being up at all, is a miracle. I don't want to go demanding more. So I just say “you know, I wanna be a good photographer. I wanna be successful. I wanna live well.”_

_You look me over as I take a graceless gulp of lemonade straight from the bottle. I feel weighed and measured for my mediocre dream. Indeed, you say “but you_ are _a good photographer and you're gonna be successful and you damn sure are gonna live well.”_

_I beam, even though I can't perceive it- or even a few months ahead of me._

_“I'm talking real dreams,” you continue. “Like, the specifics. What does your perfect day in your perfect life look like?”_

_I draw a blank so visible that I know you notice. I admit “I mean right now my perfect day is logging into the site to find out I got an A in Math and then getting some ice cream.”_

_“Fucking math,” you of the C-scraping math grades mutter, and I giggle._

_“Yeah,” I respond. “Exactly. Besides, I'm just…” I shrug and look down. “I'm not a long term thinker, you know?”_

_“It's okay,” you insist. I don't look up, so you tap my shoulder and repeat “Seriously, it's totally okay. I promise.”_

_I'm not sure I believe you, but it's comforting at worst to believe it's okay, so I look up and smile._

_“Like, think of it like… not big picture,” you continue, hands gesturing in the air. You're gonna let your coffee go cold again. “Think of it like… you're gonna wake up one day at a cabin near the beaches of Ireland. You're not gonna have much because you're pretty minimalistic, but you have your camera. Though it's like a thousand dollar camera. Top of the line. And you're here on a NatGeo shoot, which you take occasionally between freelancing your own photography. You slept really well-”_

_“That's how I know it's a fantasy.”_

_You snort. “Save the commentary for the DVD, girl. But you slept really well, and…” You stop and shrug. “I don't know if you really want a girlfriend or not, but if you do, she's making coffee in the other room. And you can't wait to try it, because you're not really a coffee person but you're feeling frisky today.” With a giggle, you add, “So you're hoping she does too!”_

_I snort laughter again. Thankfully, I wasn't drinking anything as you spoke so I could listen to you. I'm also not sure if I want a girlfriend- it's generally such a jarring shift between being okay being single and crushing on someone. It usually punches me in the face and makes me reevaluate everything, so at the very least, I'm always well aware of when it happens- even when otherwise I am too distant to remember how it feels._

_“Will I have my inhaler?” I ask, willing you to say no. I don't know why I'm asking you to dictate my dreams, but you definitely do it better._

_You think for a second. “At the very least, it won't impede you._

_“I'll take it.”_

\---

“Want some lunch?”

Since my appetite is the only strong part of me, I say “what do you think?” before I can stop myself. I giggle at the idea of _me_ not being hungry, and you laugh too, voice like the queen of the junkyard that built me out of spare parts.

You pull into a drive-thru. The line is five cars deep before we even get to the speaker. “Guess we're hitting the beach tonight,” you joke bitterly. You never were one for waiting.

“Then we'll hit the beach tonight,” I respond with a smile.

“Says the one not driving at midnight.”

I can't argue with that, so I just rattle off “ _Girl”_ and listen to you giggle again. It feels comfortable, and for once I'm not questioning myself. For a few moments, I'm not wondering if I'm good enough. For a few moments, I'm not so certain the answer is a definite _no._ I am here with you, and that's enough.

\---

It's a fifteen-minute hike through the forest to get to the beach, and for some reason, we both figured that going to the beach in December was a good idea. “That's the last time I listen to you,” I grumble as if that's in any damn way the truth.

“ _Please_ ,” you shout back at me because you know better.

You're carrying a rain-slicked popup-tent bag and a large picnic cooler with snacks and our leftover lunch in it, though you ate most of your fries in the car. I march a decent distance behind you, carrying my purse on my shoulder and a pair of consolation towels under my jacket to feel like I'm helping. I'm suddenly glad I wore a large Pete coat to the beach and brought more than one inhaler.

We scale a slippery, sand-covered slope between us and the beach. I try my best to keep my balance and my breath but I am failing at both. You notice and, setting your things on the creeping edge of the sand, reach out to grab my hands and wrap your arms around me. After I take a second to shake out of the blissful shock of the way your skin touches mine, I balk. “It's okay,” I insist. “Carry your own stuff. Don't worry.”

You scoff, annoyed at something. “Like I'm gonna let you fall on your face for a couple of burgers. Come _on_.”

I don't tell you I would rather fall on my face than be a burden to you, and we reach the ground before I can. As you go to scale back up for the things you left towards the plateau, I want to apologize that the only person who followed you to the beach was a breathless sack of potatoes who could eat you out of house and home, but instead I reach into my purse and take a puff of my inhaler.

You make it back down, breathless and arms full. You look at my face and, judging by your response being “it's seriously okay. Don't worry about me” I must have looked as bitter as I feel. I know enough about you to give a small smile because if I fake it, you'll call me out. Even though I feel immaterial, I try not to act it.

I can't be someone you want without being _someone._

I just wish this someone wasn't _this._

\---

We sit in the tent together as the rain fails to reach us. You eat what's left of your fries and I pop my pills in my mouth. Years of taking medication have made it so I can shoot them back without water, but you always act astonished when I do what is so natural to me.

“That's so _freaky_!” you cackle, and I have to reason with myself that it's a compliment. I'm so close to you that I feel like I could be a lovely part of your scene, and also like I don't belong there. I put my pill bottles back in my purse and brush my hand against an old companion of mine.

“ _Hello_ ,” I muse at my camera.

“Hi,” you respond, causing me to giggle.

I hesitate for a second. I have gotten back to photography ever so slightly since meeting you- at least, the more and more I've been healthy enough to. Yet as much as I miss it, it is so difficult being back in the saddle. Everything in my body tells me _you are tired, you are weak, stay here,_ and the comfort of your presence doesn't make that chain easier to break.

Still, I fumble for the strap and pull the camera out of my purse. I should treat it better, as expensive as it is, but I've lost the case for it and quite frankly can't be hassled to find it. I still have the lens cap on, and I reason that it's at least _something,_ if not enough.

Your eyes light up. “Ooh, tell me you're gonna take pictures.”

I nod with a smile, pulling the hood of my coat above the loose, frail strands of my hair. I swear a few of them fall out when I do. “We're at the beach,” I explain. “I'm lazy, but not lazy enough to miss a perfect opportunity.”

“You're not lazy,” you defend. “Give yourself some credit.”

“I'll try,” I lie.

“You better.”

I nod with a little smile. I guess I'm not lazy anymore.

You don't say anything else, tossing aside an empty fries bucket and clambering to your knees. I should tell you to stay and relax, but instead, I let you follow as I move the flaps from the popup tent and lead us out.

You and I met over my photography- I was hanging my finals piece in the same hall you were standing with homemade care packages in an empty room in. You wasted no time to compliment the photo, flattering me with the abruptness I now know you for. In turn, you handed me one of the care packages, housed in a paper bag with a blue elephant stuffed animal sticking out. I took one with a purple giraffe instead with an embarrassed giggle and breathless apology. You laughed at my audacity as though it was charming before introducing yourself, and the stream of words between us began.

You dressed for the beach part, and I dressed for the December part, so your skin is being attacked by raindrops that should treat you better. You don't express annoyance; in fact, you've never seemed more content in your life than you are just to watch me take photos of whatever patch of sand or nearby bluff interests me.

“There's nothing more beautiful,” you muse, wonder in your voice, “than a beach in Oregon at this time of year.” Passively, I agree.

Eventually, we split apart. I miss your presence but decide not to stop taking pictures. I get lost in the habit just like I used to before I got sick. It's lovely and reminds me of all the times I wasn't this strong. I shouldn't be out here. I shouldn't be out here with you. I'm blessed to make it from a sickbed to pursuing my dreams. I’m blessed to have met someone like you.

I turn and notice you on the sand. You're staring at the ocean blankly, entranced by wave after wave breaking against the shore. You're wearing skinny jeans, a tight white shirt with wide sleeves, and Converse shallower than the waves that encircle your feet from time to time. Your hair is undone, pale brown curls wild and aimless on your shoulders, looking as though they were never tamed.

I angle the shot perfectly and take it without you noticing. I feel like a creep, but I can't miss the opportunity. I found something more beautiful than a beach in Oregon.

Even during this time of year.


	2. Chapter 2

You want to say something as we rest in the tent again. I use a towel as a makeshift pillow as you dry off with yours. We didn't bring swimsuits because the draw wasn't enjoying the beach as much as appreciating it, appreciating being here, appreciating each other.

(Besides, we're wet enough as it is. At least if you catch a cold I brought medicine for that.)

I'm going through the motions of looking through my shots but always gravitate to the shot of you. As if you could see me, I flip the picture on my camera screen away from it, even though you’ve done nothing but silently dare yourself to talk. The air in the tent is one of someone about to say words, but won't- or can't.

I gently tap your lap with my foot. It's almost light enough to pass as unintentional, but you know I mean something by it. You know you can say anything around me.

“So I guess…” You whisper and stutter, so it must mean something. “Since you're the… like, the only one I know who, like, understands it…” You sigh, and I lean up towards you.

“Hey.”

You look at me with inquisitive, tired eyes. I turn to sit next to you, my body reminding you _I’m here, it’s okay, I’ll never hurt you._ I keep my hands to myself, tempting as it is to differ, so nothing distracts you from your purpose.

You sigh again and speak too quickly. “This is where I accepted I was gay.”

I take in a sharp breath and whisper your name like an incantation.

The words you say mean something different than how I would mean it. You aren't like me. As soon as I realized I was gay, I came out. It didn't matter what others said- being a lesbian was the one thing I could never second-guess about myself. Meanwhile, there are so many thoughts and complications storming through your head that the closet you left behind could only be a filthy, dusty mess. Some of the dust still clings to you, so hard to remove that I believe that it’s all formed scars.

“I just… had enough,” you breathe, validating my theories. “Enough of it all. It was such a storm in my head of… anxiety and hatred and misery and self-loathing…” You look at me, begging me to understand. “I just got sick of people I loved trying to compromise with me. Like it was okay to be gay as long as I never _acted_ gay. Like they would love me more if I wasn’t gay. You know what I mean?”

“I know,” I assure you, eyes closed. Even though our paths were different, there are things we both know all too well. “And yet here you are.”

You sound like you're stumbling over your words but I can’t fathom it. You finally say “And here I am. Just a gay girl trying her goddamn best.”

I beam. I’ve never expressed my pride for you even making it to this point, but I know neither of us can imagine a world where I’m not. You are here, and you've stopped feeling like a sinner. You feel like enough. You don't feel perfect, but you feel like _enough._ I know that, and I know enough about you for it to be evocative to me. I know enough that I would carry all the dust that clings to you if it lightens the load. You're amazing for making it this far, but you deserve to be free.

“So this place has a lot of meaning to me,” you say. “Where I just let it all go.”

I nod. “I'm so glad you did.”

You smile. “Me too.”

You’re never one to put me in a mystery with how you feel. You told me about every romantic flight and fall that you had experienced since we met, and I listened with empathy and envy that grew to the point where I could no longer ignore it. Every woman you dated was your peer- you spoke about them with more love than you do yourself, but you've never talked about them like they were more than the woman in your mirrors. Yet to me, you are so magnificent that I cannot imagine that being the case for me.

I've not come out about anything that explains why you’re the only woman I've been attracted to in ages. There are many ways that I don't love like you. I know enough about you to know that your process is and was different, and your version of our shared experiences matters deeply to you. Selfishly, I've always wondered if mine can mesh with yours, but my draw to solitude giving in to sporadic romantic obsession feels like a flaw you couldn't understand and I couldn't forgive.

We rest next to each other. You're sitting on your knees and I'm holding mine to my chest. In my coat and skirt next to you, I am so puritanical. I have always felt like an outsider, trying so hard to be pretty only to look in awe at your effortless beauty, but we look so good with each other, don't you agree?

Don't you?

I open my mouth and shut it because I almost come out to you. I mean, I already have (I was wearing a rainbow pin when we met if I recall correctly). We've shared experiences and put our heads together over our lives as lesbians. But _gay_ is as far as I got with you. I almost tell you everything, including the parts that leave you behind- which frightens me the most.

I clench my fist so hard that my nails dig into my skin like hooks. I almost did it. I almost slipped. I almost changed everything, and I'm not sure that I shouldn't have. I would have to you, too easily, when it feels like too much. Through this all, you don't notice me, and that strangely feels more infuriating than relieving.

I don't realize I've held out my hand nearest you until I look down to see it empty, unconsciously begging for comfort, for approval, for company. I pull it in with an apology and you gasp, but I'm too busy alternating between fighting and embracing the worst case scenarios as to why I am such an outsider that you wouldn't take my hand and enter the reality that I am in.

I truly am a fool, but I am your fool.

\---

We stay until it's long after dark. It's December, so that isn't too late in the day. We hike back to the car and I'm closer to you than before because I need you. I need you to drown out the voices in my head telling me off for even thinking my feelings are reciprocated when I am _me._ I rethink all of the offending actions I may have taken just in this day alone, some negligible and others impossible to notice, because I'm being consumed by you and the standards that I have thrust into your hands.

We make it to your car and pack our things into the trunk without a second thought. I move to the front, almost falling into my seat, and take four puffs of my inhaler. It's not even a quarter of the way gone but I feel like I need my oxygen tank.

“Curse my weak constitution,” I joke like I'm joking.

You smile sadly and start the car.

\---

You finally get phone reception when we enter Cannon Beach for gas. The attendant is filling us up as I wait in the car while you take a call in the distance. I see you smile a lot, a fake smile that you act like the other party can see. I don't feel comfortable with it even as the attendant stops and you enter the car having paid her.

You manage to drive around to near the on-ramp to the highway before you pull over to the side of the road and lean your forehead into the steering wheel, crying.

“Babe?” I blurt. The pet name feels intrusive.

You shrug and swallow after a sob. Your breaks between jags are always long enough to disarm me until you sob again. I wrap my arm around you, feeling your tense shoulder blades try and fail to loosen as you cry. My actions are abrupt, but there’s no time for caution.

“This is stupid,” you say weakly.

“It's not,” I insist. “I promise. You can say what you want.”

You choke down another sob and comply.

“I just…” you start. “It's such bullshit. Like… I get it when people have plans. And I get it that it was last minute and all, but…” You breathe for too long. I know what it's like to choke yourself with your sorrows. “It's Saturday, you know? I know they had nothing going on. And not one of them had the time for me, you know?”

“That _is_ bullshit,” I concur. They missed a golden opportunity to be near you, damn the rain, the season, the traffic, damn _everything_.

“I know,” you bemoan. “It's like, don't I deserve better?”

I close my eyes and remove my hand. The word _deserve_ stabs me in the heart, and any life I have left is drained by it.

“You deserve better than me?”

You gasp from the steering wheel. “What?”

Everything turns sour. Everything. I wish I wasn't there. I wish I wasn't there to puff on my inhaler and get carried around by someone who could only think of how things should have been better than what I had to offer while I could only muse of how amazing it was to get a snapshot of you.

I open the car door while you tell me you didn't mean it like that and walk outside, facing the empty on-ramp. I cover my mouth and scream with all my heart, all of my pain, as if I can get it out with one primal shriek, as if I can enter the car a whole, perfect woman who doesn't love you as badly as I do.

When I turn back, so breathless that I nearly kneel and die from sacrificing the air in my lungs trying to fix my broken heart, I see you leaning on the car door, aghast and mortified at the mess that I really am.

I shamble back to the car and use my inhaler again before buckling up. Your face is made of stone and I notice your pain with chills. We don't leave for five minutes and I regret each minute that I've cost you. I regret each minute that wasn't worth to you what it was to me.

\---

_It's quiet for a few moments. You take a sip of your coffee and stick your tongue out after you swallow. “I did it again,” you groan._

_I shrug, my lips teasing in an affectionate smile at your familiarity. There's something about your idiosyncrasies that charms me, that feels warm and cozy. It's…_ you. _It reminds me of you and makes me happy, in a way that doesn't feel like it usually does._

_“Just promise you'll be there for me when it happens,” I say before I stop myself. I almost cup my mouth, because it's the most hopeful thing I've ever said, but I stop short._

_You wave your hand. “Girl, of course, I'll be there.” With a chipper, closed eye smile that makes you look strangely adorable in its reckless optimism, you say “Someone's gotta read the rough drafts I send from Machu Picchu.”_

_I smile. “Machu Picchu, huh?”_

_“Yeah, a little stereotypical,” you respond, but I like that you dream big. Unabashedly, you always have. “I'm not even sure I'll have wifi to send you shit, but I wanna take my girl there. I bet she'll love it.”_

_I raise an eyebrow. “Your girl?”_

_“Hypothetical dream future girlfriend,” you explain, eyes opening as you get more comfortable “and in my hypothetical dream future, I'll probably propose to her there.”_

_I beam at the idea. “That's so pure!” In my head, I follow it up with pride that you've acknowledged it as not a playful indicator of debauchery that isn't playful, but as something you deserve. I'm so proud that you can talk of potential girlfriends in your dream future since I normally know you as very shy and embarrassed about the manner._

_“She'll love it,” I say with stern confidence._

_“I hope!” you respond. “I'm gonna have the best life. It's only fair that I share it.”_

_“You truly are a writer.”_

_“Girl…” you say, smiling as your words fade away. You're alarmingly comfortable and I love how warm you look. You truly look like a companion. You truly look like someone I will know decades from now. You're the only thing that feels like it will last longer than a year in my life. You're the only future I can see._

_I finish my lemonade as you look at me with tired satisfaction. Your gaze, even as soft as it is, feels like I've been punched in the face, but that's okay with me._

\---

We reach a rest area halfway on the way back. You pull in and I think it's to use the bathroom until you don't leave the car. I could use a break to stretch my legs, but don't dare leave you. I don't look at you but I have memorized the exhaustion and hopelessness of your presence. I’ve always had a compulsion to mirror.

You lean your seat back so that you're laying down, hand on the stick shift until it leaves. I don't dare follow even as you ask for me to. I'm silent and keep closing my eyes because I don't want to exist here as _not enough_.

“Yeah,” you say. “I… really hurt you, didn't I?”

I don't say anything. I'm too scared to even nod.

You sigh. “Yeah. Yeah.” Your voice dies into your throat as you whisper “yeah.”

I fold my arms but it falls apart and I swallow tears before you see them, because I am not angry; I am sad. You apologize, and I don't say anything back because I want to, _need to_ hear why you are.

You just say “I really did have a great day.”

“You could have had a better day,” I argue, and at this point I'm not even sure if I’m basing my argument off of your words. I just know that you could have.

“I could have had a different day,” you argue. “I had to adapt. But I'm so glad I did because this was personal. This was… you and me. No one else. And it was more comfortable for that.” I don't say anything, so you add a desperate “I promise!”

I sniffle and try my damndest not to cry, leaning into the dash. I can tell by the pain in your voice that I've hurt _you,_ and I don't know what to make of this all other than what I thought was true and I made everything worse by being here, lured by the stars in your eyes.

“Do you just not like me?”

I shoot up. “What are you talking about?!” I can't believe _you're_ saying that to _me_ and not the other way around.

“Sometimes I really wonder if you do!” you reply. “I'm not just being full of shit! I feel this sort of unease from you every time we talk, and _this…_ ” I hear your hands drop against the metal in your seat. “I didn't mean to hurt you, but it feels like you…”

It's quiet except for how hastened our breath is, somehow yours quicker than mine.

“Like you think I hate you,” you admit.

I slowly look to look at you, but you're lying down perfectly straight until you see me. The color has drained from your face, and you look like you're prepared for the most awkward car ride home.

“I don't hate you,” I say in a low, serious tone that resists every word that's true. “I… you did deserve better than me. I just…”

You whisper my name sadly, pitifully, and I deserve it.

“I wish I could have been better,” I finish.

Voice raw, you speak like these words never needed to be said, like you assumed they were known. “Girl, I trust you more than anyone else I know. I can… I can breathe near you. I know you'll be there. Like… it would be weird if you weren't.”

I don't respond for a second, but the air fills up with words I'm about to say. Even a small step on shaky ground feels like too much, like I'll fall down the sandy slope because you're not there to carry me, and as many times as I wish I could say I don't, I want you there. I need you there. You say I'm always there for you, but it's my need to be yours more than anything. I don't know if I'll ever lose the desire to be by your side.

So I lean my seat back to join you. I'm just a bit above you so I can try and keep from getting dizzy, so I can breathe.

“So what did you mean by you deserving better?”

You choke. This is a lot to admit, I can tell, but you need to. I need you too. Just… please, _please,_ say something. The lies are consuming. Give me something real.

“I… don't feel like they care sometimes,” you admit. “I don't feel like they'd miss me. And sometimes I feel like you care… but I feel like I might just be reading what I want into it. Because they don't care. Why should you?”

I face you. _Why should I? Because I love your plans and I love riding shotgun next to you as you execute them. I love how you make me feel like I'm part of something, like I'm a chapter in your autobiography. I love how your energy could power a stadium and gives me breath with ease I've never experienced while taking it away at the same time. I love our chemistry and how you're the first woman since I got sick to help me embrace my own personality. I love the way you and I look together and I love you._

I don't say those words aloud but I whisper “I'd miss you” so quietly I know you don't catch it, because a world where you feel lonely and abandoned is a foul world indeed. My words mean nothing, though, because you do not hear me. I'm alone with my own affections again.

“I’m sorry,” I say instead. “I misunderstood you.” With my eyes closed, I admit “I think I put too much stock into what others think of me. I read into it too much, and...” I choke up and can’t tell myself that it’s _not_ pathetic of me. “I really wish I wouldn’t.”

“Hey, it happens,” you say soothingly. Then, a sigh. “Just… I mean better than sometimes you think I do.”

I close my eyes so you don’t see my heart break. I never meant to think so lowly of myself that I saw you as the personification of my inner voice. I can't carry my own fiction anymore, and it is too ugly to keep forcing onto you. I want it to fall and shatter so I can look reality in the eye. It’s blessed me so much lately, but I am too used to its curses- and you, the blessing, I have taken in like a curse. I should do better by us both.

I need to take a chance. I need to trust in it.

I open my eyes so I can see it when it approaches.

I turn towards you, and you meet my gaze. “Let's make a deal,” I suggest.

“What kind of deal?” Tears streak your eyes but you haven't let them fall yet.

“One where we're honest,” I explain. My voice is shaking yet my tone is firm. “Honest about how we feel about the other.”

You light up with a fierceness I didn't expect as much as I should have, and carefully take my hand with yours. I wonder if you're trying to make up for lost time, and I beam because I'm about to do the same.

I don’t want our journey to stop tonight.

I don’t want it to stop at all.


End file.
